Several years ago, I took my son — then barely a year old — to the Jewish Museum on the Upper East Side of New York to see the exhibition Leonard Cohen: A Crack in Everything.

I remember stopping outside the museum, his stroller facing a large poster of Cohen’s face. The words of his lyric stretched across it: “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” My son couldn’t read, of course, but he stared at that image intently, as if trying to make sense of what all the grown-ups were looking for. It was a tender, ordinary afternoon in New York; a father and child visiting an exhibit, a small act of continuity in a busy city.

I didn’t know, then, how much those words would matter. I didn’t know we would soon live through a pandemic that would empty museums, synagogues, and schools; that we would witness October 7 and the eruption of antisemitism across campuses and public life; or that our civic order itself would begin to feel so fractured. “A crack in everything” turned out not to be metaphorical. It became the condition of our world.

This fall, I returned to the Jewish Museum with that same son, now old enough to read and to ask questions. The museum has been newly curated, and for the first time in years, it feels unmistakably Jewish — rooted, confident, and proud of its inheritance. Where the earlier exhibit and show universalized Cohen’s lyric into a cultural meditation, the new curation situates Jewish endurance at its center. On the fourth floor, in large letters on the wall, the lyric reappears: “There is a crack, a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”

Standing there with my son, I realized how the meaning had changed, not in the words, but in us.

Cohen wrote these words as part of his song, “Anthem,” most likely as a meditation on imperfection and redemption. Its refrain — “Ring the bells that still can ring / Forget your perfect offering” — rejects the false purity of utopianism. It is a deeply Jewish idea: the world is broken, and we are called to repair it, not replace it. The crack is not a flaw to be sealed over; it is the aperture through which holiness enters.

In the years since COVID-19 and October 7, I have found myself returning to this idea again and again. We have endured illness, isolation, and war; the rise of antisemitism on campuses and in the streets; and a moral confusion that has left many young Jews disoriented. In all of it, Cohen’s words have felt like instruction, not sentiment. They remind us that despair is easy but empty, and that to be Jewish is to choose life even in the face of fracture.

When the Jewish Museum chose to display this line so prominently, it was making a quiet but profound statement: that Jewish art, faith, and memory are not defined by victimhood or perfectionism, but by resilience. The museum, like Cohen’s song, acknowledges the world’s cracks and then insists that light can still enter through them.

The museum itself embodies this renewal. By firmly embracing its Jewish identity, the museum has become what it was meant to be: a cultural and spiritual home, not merely a secular art space with Jewish footnotes.

Hebrew inscriptions are allowed to stand proudly, ritual objects are presented as living tools rather than anthropological artifacts, and modern works converse openly with ancient forms. It situates Jewish creativity not as a curiosity within modernity but as a moral partner to it.

That, too, echoes Cohen. His art was never about erasing tension between the sacred and the profane, but holding it. His Judaism was both universal and particular, both Montreal and Jerusalem, both psalm and protest.

When we reached the upper gallery, my son stopped before a remarkable Torah scroll, preserved under glass. The scroll, with its Hebrew letters still dark and deliberate, was said to have been desecrated by British soldiers in 1776, when the New York congregation fled the city with General Washington’s retreating troops. It now sits restored and revered, the centerpiece of the museum’s reimagined space. I watched my son peer into the glass, his reflection hovering over the ancient words. It was as if he were seeing the story of endurance itself: the unbroken chain of reading, repair, and renewal that defines Jewish life. Behind him, an ornate ark shimmered with gold and blue, a reminder that even in exile, beauty and faith persist.

In that moment, Cohen’s line — “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in”- – felt literal. The glass case reflected both fragility and illumination. A text once defiled now stands at the center of a museum reborn. My son’s gaze met that light, and I thought: this is how transmission happens; not through lectures or manifestos, but through wonder, through seeing something both broken and whole.

There is also a civic lesson here. Cohen’s “crack in everything” is really about how communities respond to brokenness. Liberal democracy, too, depends on the belief that imperfection is not fatal — that disagreement and difference can coexist with shared purpose.

In today’s cultural climate, that belief is under strain.

But the Jewish tradition — and the American civic tradition — teach the opposite. They teach that truth and light emerge through argument, through the wrestling Jacob undertakes with the angel, through the contestation of the prophets and the debates of the Talmud.

“Ring the bells that still can ring,” Cohen says — meaning, use what still works, and keep faith with what remains, even when it is partial or cracked. Civic renewal depends on that same spirit. The Jewish Museum’s new presentation is an act of such faith. It does not paper over pain, nor does it instrumentalize suffering. It invites viewers — Jewish and not — to see continuity amid rupture. And in doing so, it offers a civic model: that communities can be honest about their wounds without surrendering their worth.

This lesson feels especially urgent after October 7. The massacre in Israel and the subsequent eruption of antisemitism across the West have revealed just how fragile moral clarity has become. Many institutions that speak endlessly of justice have struggled, or refused, to name evil when it targeted Jews. The cracks in our civic and moral order were exposed. And yet, even here, light can enter.

In my discussions over the years with the late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, he often reminded me of a truth at the heart of our tradition: Our task is not to perfect the world but to begin the work, knowing it will never be complete. That sentiment has never felt more relevant.

Leaving the museum that afternoon, my son looked up at the inscription one last time. “That’s a good idea,” he said, in the simple way children speak when they sense something true. It was a moment of grace; a reminder that memory, art, and faith can transmit strength even across generations that know only fragments of what came before. Someday he may bring his own child here and look again into that same glass, seeing both the cracks and the light and know they belong to him.

Cohen’s lyric is not only a song; it is a theology of hope. The Jewish Museum’s decision to foreground it is an affirmation that Jewish culture remains, at its core, a beacon of light amid brokenness. And that lesson is one America needs desperately right now: that cracks are not endings but invitations — inspirations to rebuild, to renew, and to let the light in.

Samuel J. Abrams is a professor of politics at Sarah Lawrence College and a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute.